


Bittersweet Between my Teeth

by Daiako (Achrya)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: ...of sorts, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Betrayal, Blood, Book Series: The Dark Tower, Disturbing Themes, Forgiveness, Getting Together, Guns, M/M, Prophetic Dreams, Psychic Bond, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-04 01:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12158889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achrya/pseuds/Daiako
Summary: "I won't let you fall again." Thorin lies."I believe you." Bilbo says, making liars of them both, and takes his hand.Bilbo has never longed for adventure, or much of anything, but with one little push his life changes. He wakes in a world on the edge of ruin with little choice but to join a man named Thorin on a journey. A man who he has never met but feels, in his heart, that he knows and a journey he knows nothing about but is sure will end in tragedy.





	1. I: The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> So. I meant to re-read It, since the movie was coming out, then realized I no longer have the attention span I did as a teenager and moved on to re-reading The Dark Tower Series again. And started having thoughts about Roland and the Tower vs Thorin and Erebor. And here we are. 
> 
> This is basically complete on my end, just needs editing and maybe some more scenes added in if I'm feeling particularly productive. Updates once or twice a week, I think.

 

It starts with the dream that isn’t a dream, surrounded by the reflections of those who are him but are not him.

No. No that’s not right. It starts in the Waystation, when rough fingers grip his shirt and blue eyes like ice chips stare down, _through_ , him and electricity crackles between them. Maybe it starts in that first moment when the ‘Touch’, the ‘Sight’, flares to life in him and he falls into him, gets twisted up in everything he is, and begins to follow even though he knows it will all end is misery.

It always ends in misery.

But that’s not right either, is it? Perhaps. Perhaps it begins when he dies. Lying broken in the filthy half melted slush of winter, breath coming slower and slower, knowing his body was twisted all wrong but not being able to really grasp it, or anything, beyond the delighted golden eyes of a man in black, watching him.

That’s nearly it, nearly the right moment, but there was something before and, Bilbo supposes he was right the first time. It started in a dream, though not in *that* dream. This dream is the first one, that came and went his entire boring life, where voices whispered to him of betrayal, of hardship, of giving and giving but getting only pain in return, of lust and love and family found and lost, and stinging.

The sting of hurt feelings, the sting of teeth against his throat and nails along his skin, a blade that found him time and again.

Maybe it’s all of those. Maybe it doesn’t matter how it starts so much as how it ends and begins again, and that it’s always blue eyes, black hair, and pain at both points, waiting for him.

So let’s try again.

It starts going wrong with a dream that isn’t a dream, surrounded by the reflections of those who are him but are not him. He knows them, in this dream. Bilbo can feel the bits of them that linger in him. They’re puzzle pieces, parts of a whole, the same but also unique.

“You should leave him now.” One days to him. This one is small, hair a mass of red-gold curls, eyes shifting between green and blue, with absurdly large, hairy feet. In one moment he is young-ish, standing as tall as he can with a ring hanging around his neck that makes Bilbo’s brain _scream_ when he looks upon it, and in the next he is impossibly old and weathered, hunched over and staring out of his mirror with rheumy eyes. “Or he’ll leave you.”

“He will lead you to burn.” A woman with black hair fixed back into hundreds of tight, thin braids and brown skin tells him. At her throat is a broach and within it sits a stone that Bilbo cannot hope to describe, beyond beautiful and terrible. She shifts and her skin blackens and flakes away, her hair lights and burns, and her clothes fall into tatters. “You aren't enough to sway him from his path.”

Another male, holding that same terrible, awful, enchanting stone in his hands, has blood trickling down from where his head is half caved him. It drips upon the stone in fat splashing droplets, slides along it’s surface to stain the man’s hands. “He’ll let you fall.”

“You would follow him to the end but it never matters.” This one is short and something about him is wild; maybe the starlight in his eyes or the sharp teeth in his mouth, or maybe the blond hair, a mass of curls threaded with beads and coins. There is a wound at his side, seeping pus and blood. “He will cast you aside.”

“He will ruin you.” Another, cradling a swaddled bundle with glossy black curls to their chest, love in their red rimmed eyes and blood staining the simple white night shirt they wore and dribbling down their thighs and legs to puddle around their feet. “It doesn’t matter what you give him, he can love nothing but his mountain.”

There are more of them, of him, and they all tell the same tale. There is no happiness ahead of him, only misery. It’s a cycle, neverending and vicious. He believes them because he knows there are no lies here in this room of reflection. He believes them because they are him, dozens of him.

And so he knows they understand when he says he can’t turn back now, cannot abandon _him_. He has never done it before, they're the proof of that, and he cannot start now.

It’s the him with the furry feet and pointed ears that beckons him closer. He is young and the ring, the ring, calls to Bilbo. He can feel it, pressure inside his head, an ache in his teeth, an itch in his hands. “We never do get it right. Stubborn as a dwarf we are, and twice as thickheaded.”

Bilbo smiles, tight and sad, and sees it reflected back at him. It hurts to see so he looks away, focuses on the ring hanging there. It’s simple, a golden band, no jewels or engravings, but he knows there’s more to it than it’s apparent simplicity. Bilbo can hear it, a high warbling that set his teeth on edge and claws at the inside his skull with needle sharp claws, and he can feel it reaching for him.

Something drops into his pocket, heavy and warm, but he’s only distantly aware of it past the crooning of that ring. He wants it, reaches for it even though he knows he shouldn’t but it’s his, it’s his, his pre-

He wakes up with a scream choking him and a stone in his hands. He stares at it, milky white and full of light and shifting color and a deep resonating sickness. He knows what it is, what it means, what he should do with it.

He hears Thorin coming closer, calling to him softly in the early morning gloom, and hastily shoves the stone into his pack, a peculiar fear gripping his heart. He means to say something, he really does, he just needs time to explain how he’s suddenly come into possession of this stone, this key, this heirloom of a dead kingdom that his companion desires above all else.

But it doesn’t happen.

And then...then he falls.


	2. II: The Way Station

The man in black fled across the desert and the Slayer followed.

He wore two overlapping belts; from one hung two guns, made of strong, silver metal none in this age could mine or shape, and from the other a single gun of the same metal, smaller and more narrow in design. A sword was strapped to his back. 

It had been a very long time since he’d seen his prey but he followed nonetheless, knowing somehow the way to go.

\---

They meet at the Waystation. 

Bilbo wasn’t sure how he ended up there, exactly, or perhaps he knew and forgot. All he knew was that he woke up on the floor of an abandoned building in what looked to be an endless desert. There was nowhere to go that he could see and for some reason he had no desire to strike out into the swirling sands. 

He ate from mason jars he found stacked on dusty, bowing shelves in a equally dusty kitchen, drank from a handy pump that spewed fresh, crisp water, slept on sheets bleached beyond color by the sun that came in through the dingy windows, and he waited. 

He forgot.

There are maps to look at, many of them marking the same spot (he supposed that was where he was) books with pages just this side of crumbling away to read, each full of words that were familiar but not quite right, and all the time in the world to thing. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, really, but he waited anyway because he could not remember what else to do. He was aware that he was forgetting things, could feel the gaps in his mind growing, but he didn't know what he's forgotten or how to halt it.

And then the man came, creeping upon him when he was asleep in the shade of the home or inn or whatever it was, gripped him by the shirt to shake him awake then slammed him against the wooden wall with enough force to make them groan. They were already leaning inwards, the wood bleached, worn, and thin, and Bilbo half expected it to come down or splinter under the impact. The man growled words at him in a harsh language that fell from his mouth like stones and pressed the barrel of a gun against his head. His eyes were fever bright, unfocused, and so very very blue. 

A sense of deja vu settled over Bilbo as fear built in his chest.

He shivered, something that he would later label static electricity racing between them and shocking nerves he hadn’t known were there to life. The world shifted on its axis and changed before his eyes, a flash of color and light and sounds from scenes he didn’t know and a stabbing in his heart. 

There was carved stone, deep in the earth, and a sadness so sharp it took his breath away. 

There was darkness, fathomless and cloying, a sticky sucking thing that covered all and refused to release him. 

There was the glitter of gold and slick blood coating his hands.  

They both cried out, the man jerking away and Bilbo collapsing into a heap; when he looked up again the man was staring at him with new eyes, confusing replacing the rage that had been there before. He opened his mouth to speak, swayed on his feet, then passed clean out onto the hard packed earth. 

Bilbo drug him inside. It was not an easy task and, in the end, he could do no more than drag the man onto blankets he built up on top of a rug. There was no chance he was getting him into a bed as he was. 

He gave the man water, dribbling it past lips so chapped they’d split and bleed, covered him in blankets at night, and lit a fire to keep the chill of the desert at night away. It seemed like the polite thing to do and Bilbo was nothing if not polite. Manners were important to him. 

He watched the man through that night and well into the next day, curious in spite of himself. He looked to be older than Bilbo from some angles, long dark hair shot through with silver and lines around his eyes and mouth, but from others he seemed...worn down. Not by age but by life. 

Something told Bilbo there was a great weight on this man’s shoulders, and that he’d carried it alone and very far. 

His skin was ravaged by the elements, red and caked in dust from the constant lashing of sand, made dark and peeling because of the sun, and his clothes leather and homespun cloth with a fur lined coat Bilbo couldn’t imagine wearing in this heat, were worn nearly to the point of falling apart. He carried three guns, each with bullets loaded into cylinders and a leather pouch of bullets. The guns were lighter than they should have been, made of a metal he couldn’t put a name to, and his fingers itched to draw them from the belts when he unbuckled them from the man’s body. He didn’t, though his eyes lingered on the unmatched one, captivated by the script engraved along the barrel.

The belts and guns he set aside, out of reach (for his own safety) but close enough to be seen when the man woke up.

When it finally happened the man sat bolt upright, hands going right for where he kept his weapons. When he came up empty his eyes darted around anxiously, landing on Bilbo for a moment. A furious flush rose up his sunburnt skin and his lips parted, no doubt to yell or demand something of him.

“Over there.” Bilbo pointed to where the man's items were, placed closer to the man than to Bilbo in what he hoped was a clear show of good faith. “I thought you were going to shoot me so I thought it best to put those far enough away that it couldn’t be the first thing you did.”

The man blinked slowly. Bilbo blinked back. The man let out a breath and visibly deflated, the anger leaking out of his body. Bilbo held out a tin cup of water he’d been drinking from himself wordlessly then offered up dried meat, tough and tasting mostly of salt but good enough. The man took it but didn’t eat it, focusing instead on slowly sipping from the cup.

“I hope you don't mind being on the floor.” He said, feeling a bit out of sorts in the growing tension between them. “You were a bit too heavy to get into bed and...well.”

The man looked down into the cup. “I...apologize. I thought you were someone else. Someone I've been following.” His voice was deep and roughened, as if it was rarely used, and strangely familiar. Bilbo was unsure if he swayed closer to hear him better or for some other, less practical reason. 

Bilbo tilted his head to the side. “The man in black? I’ve seen no one else.” The man’s head snapped up so fast Bilbo wanted to wince in sympathy for his neck. 

“You saw him, the _Worm_? Eyes like a snake, dressed in all black, draped in chains and rings of gold and mithril?” 

“Uhm.” Bilbo said, shoulders lifting into a shrug. “I saw a man in black but I don't...I hid from him, to be honest. Something about him was wrong.” 

That man had stayed outside, slept just outside of the building Bilbo was in, without even attempting to come inside. He hadn’t built a fire or covered himself against the frigid temperatures of the desert night, hadn't eaten or drank anything. He’d just curled in on himself, silent and still as a corpse, and in the morning woken and left to strike out in a seemingly random direction. Not once had he even looked back towards the main building or even acknowledged it but Bilbo had felt like he was being watched. Like the man had known he was there and chose to allow him to watch and remain undisturbed. 

Something told Bilbo the man in black had wanted him here to tell this man what he’d seen. The thought was chilling, creeping ice straight down to the bone. It scared him almost as much as the man in black himself had.

“How long ago was it? What way did he go?” The man leaned forward, suddenly so close Bilbo could smell the sweat on him. 

He shank back some, fingers plucking anxiously at his pants. “I don't...it's hard to tell. To keep track of time. ...I forget things.” 

“Think!” The harsh bark made him jump, startled. “A day? Four? One week? Two?”

Bilbo’s fingers curled, nails scraping over his pants. “A week? A little more, maybe. I don't...he scared me. Everything about him was wrong.” 

The man said nothing else but a hint of that manic energy was back in his eyes, bright and sick. When the water was gone he held out his hand to take the cup. It was warmed from being in the larger man’s grasp; Bilbo wrapped his fingers around the dented metal and bit back a sigh.

“There’s more. A pump, in the back, if you think your stomach can take it. Crackers too, if that’d be better than the jerky.” 

The man regarded him for a long moment then, brows furrowing, spoke. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Why are you sharing your supplies.” 

“William Baggins. Most people call me Will. or Bill. Or Willy, if you’re my particularly annoying cousin-in-law Cordelia. But I think-I think you should call me Bilbo.” He said, tilting his head to the side. The man blinks at him again, silently communicating how very strange that is and Bilbo doesn’t disagree but, well, the name popped into his head and rolled off his tongue and it sounded...right. It may as well have been a well loved nickname for how natural it felt. “And I was just here. The food isn’t mine to keep, I don’t think.”  

“Just here? What does that mean?”

“I was somewhere else and now I’m here.”

The man’s expression turned stormy and his words came slower, suspicion plain. “You had to have ridden or walked here, or been brought and left.” 

“I don’t know.” Is what he said, an uncomfortable itch coming to life in the back of his mind. 

“How can you not know?” The man made to grab for him but Bilbo scrambled back further. The itch spread. “Did the man in black bring you here? Is this one of his games?” 

Bilbo stood up, shaking his head and clutching the cup so tightly he could feel it starting to collapse. “I don’t know! I don’t...I didn’t ask to be here! I didn’t! I just...this place. I just  _ am _ ! I just was.” 

“You aren’t making any sense.” 

He paced away then back, teeth grinding together as the itch reached deeper, drilled into his brain. Tears pricked his eyes but he couldn’t say why they were doing so, why he suddenly felt so strange and desperate, why it was hard to drag the warm dry air into his lungs. The man said nothing, watching and frowning and Bilbo wanted to yell at him, blame him for ruining the peace and quiet, for-for-for...ruining things, for making him-

“I don’t remember. I think I might have, yesterday or the day before but not today.” He stopped, turning his gaze onto the man helplessly. The drilling moved, was behind his eyes, hurt so badly. “I don’t want to be here, away from my home and comfortable chair and things, but-”

His home. Warm and familiar even during the most frigid of winters, much too large for him all alone but still, his. Full of the things that he loved, memories that had blown away like sand. He could see it, a flourishing garden, wildflowers in the back, two green doors, and-

Snow. It was winter. It was winter and he had somewhere to be and

It hurt but only for a moment. A snap and tumble and he’s

_ walking along the salt slick sidewalk with a group of others, friends, bundled up against the bite of the cold. They were laughing, making plans, excited for what was to come. They reached the corner but didn’t have the light so they stopped, not noticing they weren’t alone anymore.  _

_ He sees the man from the corner of his eyes, all in black with eyes like flickering fire that blink the wrong way, out stretched hands heavy with jeweled rings, smiling with too many teeth as Bilbo twists and falls into the street.  _

_ He knows the truck is coming, hears the screams, breathes in and thinks ‘I hope I haven't ruined these pants and then he is being crushed, bones snapping and insides churning. Blood and bile dribbles from his mouth. It only hurts for a second.  _

_ The man in black watches, smiling, blowing out a stream of smoke past curled lips. His eyes burn like heated coals and it’s very strange; eyes shouldn’t be able to do that. Bilbo dies, quiet and confused. _

“Master Baggins.” The man called to him, dark eyes made darker by the dimness of the room. Bilbo shuddered, ice settling like knives in his stomach. 

“I was pushed.” He said, legs shaking. The ground raced up to him, collided with his knees so hard he felt the impact in his teeth. “The man in black pushed me and the truck and I-" Bilbo's voice cracked. “I died. I  _ died _ . I-" 

But he wasn't dead, was he? 

Or was this what came after death? He hoped not, the thought that there was nothing but an abandoned building in the middle of a desert for all of eternity was worse, in a way, than the memory. Was this it, forever? Slowly forgetting, reading the same books, staring at a map to nowhere, nothing moving and nothing changing, day after day, until he went mad? 

Would he go mad? Or would he just come to know only this, everything else slipping away like water onto the cracked earth and sucked away?  

A hand settled onto his shoulder; Bilbo reached on reflex, wrapped his hands around a broad wrist, and stared up into the man’s eyes. He realized, in that moment, that he was breathing too fast, too hard, and that his vision was beginning to spot. 

“Master Baggins, calm yourself. Whatever has happened has already happened, there is no point to doing anything but coping with it now. Panicking is pointless.”

He breathed in not to calm himself but to snap in irritation. That he felt calmer and his vision cleared some was just a positive side effect. “That’s all very well and good but you’ll have to excuse me if coping with dying takes me a moment!” 

The man inclined his head slightly to the side, a silent acknowledgement of his words. Then he was looking away from him, towards the entrance of the room. “You said there’s more water? How about meat and other supplies?” 

“Oh. Um.” Bilbo blinked, taken aback by the shift in topic. “Some more jerky, but not much, and things in jars. There’s a cellar too but I haven’t been. It smells awful.” 

“I’ll look. We’ll gather what we can and leave first thing in the morning. Do you have any experience with weapons?” 

“Weapons? Certainly not- wait. We? Where?” 

“To find the man in black.” 

Bilbo found himself squeezing the man’s wrist and his breath stuttering. “To kill him?” 

“Maybe. He has something I need before I can...return home.” The man stared at him, expression unreadable. “Would you rather stay here?” 

Bilbo opened his mouth then closed it, unsure. There was nothing here, nothing at all, but it was safe as far as he could tell. There was water, perhaps more than he could ever use on his own, and he got the feeling that once this man was gone he wouldn’t be seeing anyone else any time soon. 

It was safe. 

Something told him, a soft urgent feeling deep in his chest, that following this man would be anything but. Nothing good would await him if he left this place. 

“Decide by morning.” The man slipped from his grip. 

 

\---

 

The man camped outside that night. He’d found a traveling pack while poking around and in the light of his fire he mended it back into a useable state then sorted through the supplies he’d found in the cellar, adding them too what he already had then dividing everything between the packs he had. 

He sang as he worked, just loud enough for Bilbo from where he was huddled against the front door, bundled up in blankets and staring up at one of the maps, fixed upon the wall. Some of the songs were in that harsh language he’d used when he’d, essentially, attacked Bilbo, and others he could understand, though the dialect was ‘older’ and some of the words took a little puzzling over. He didn’t think much of any of them except the last one. That one was different, though he didn’t know why.

The talk of mountains and dragons, of gold and gems and things lost and found, sounded like something out of fantasy book he’d read, though he wasn’t much of a fan of that genre and couldn’t give it a name. It stayed in his head long after the man had bedded down. It was familiar, like a song he’d heard a long time ago or, perhaps, like being in a store and just barely hearing a beat and a whisper of words but being unable to place it. 

In the morning he joined the man, accepting the weight of water skins and a pack containing dried corn, meal, and beans. A bedroll was added to the lot, tied to the bottom of the pack. 

“How’s that? Not too heavy?” Bilbo shook his head and got a flinty look in return. “Be certain. I believe we have met for a reason, be it arranged by the Worm or by the Smith I know not, but if you suffer heat stroke I won’t hesitate to leave you where you fall.” 

Bilbo frowned. “I bet you have lots of friends, personality like that.” The man’s expression shifted to something decidedly unimpressed. “I said I’ll be fine. Shouldn’t we leave before it gets any hotter?” 

The man nodded and started to turn. Then, as if remembering something, stopped in his tracks. “I’m Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror.” 

“Thorin.” Bilbo repeated, testing the name. It sat on his tongue, strange and new, and the temptation to say it again, to worry over it and taste each letter, was strong. He bit the inside of his cheek instead. 

They left then, without any more words between them, heading towards what remained of the gate farthest from the main building. Here Bilbo hesitated, lingering just at the point where he’d step out onto what looked like the rememnets of a road, marked by a stone arch that stood tall in spite of the metal fencing that had stood along it having long since rusted and fallen apart. Thorin stopped on the other side of the gate, watching him emotionlessly.  

Bilbo sucked in a breath, wondering if he should turn and...and what? Say goodbye to this strange place he’d woken up in? Do something to mark his moving on? 

“Do you really think we’ve met for a reason? Some sort of fate, arranged by what, your god?” 

Thorin offered up a mirthless smile that made Bilbo's insides squirm. “Or the _Worm_.”

Bilbo smiled wanly. “The second then. I doubt any god on your side would saddle you with me. I can’t imagine I’ll be of much use.” 

“We’ll see.” Thorin said, though his expression suggested that he agreed with Bilbo. 

Bilbo stepped past the archway and didn’t look back.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went with Slayer instead of Gunslinger as a reference to a book series I adore (even though it's of questionable quality) and because Thorin and the others are adapt at more than gunplay.


	3. III: Sting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin tells a story. It's not the most subtle of setups. ;)

 

If he thought that Thorin would be a favorable companion, if for no other reason than thinking Bilbo might had been dropped on him by some god, he was sorely mistaken. They spoke very little and when they did it was mostly for Thorin to tell him to hurry up, to drink less water, to make himself more useful when they made camp. He was rude and gruff and while Bilbo wouldn’t go so far as to say he regretted leaving the only place he knew in this world he rather wished it wasn’t Thorin he’d done it with.

His feet ached, he was always thirsty, and his stomach rumbled with constant hunger. They spaced everything out carefully and Thorin managed to add an unfortunate lizard or snake to most evening meals but Bilbo had a hard time dealing with two headed or six legged reptiles as a food source.

It just wasn’t natural.

“They’re mutants.” Thorin agreed, eyeing him like he was the one suggesting they eat mutated animals or something equally as absurd.

They’d stopped a bit early that night, the sun marking it as early evening, within seeing distance of the end of the desert. Sparse patches of grass and thin stunted trees had begun to appear on the sides of road and the near constant flatness of the desert was giving way to hills and stone formations. The mountains were there, deceptively close now, peaks wreathed in mist at the edge of the horizon.

He’d started the fire while Thorin had gone hunting, vanishing into one of the rock formations, and returned with a rodent that had no less than eight eyes and that! That was just too much for Bilbo! There was no possible way he was putting that thing, now charred and steaming, into his mouth. There were limits to what he could tolerate and Thorin had managed to find and them trample them! He would sooner eat the bland meal and corn mash the man boiled up every morning then put that thing in his mouth.

Even watching Thorin pull the greasy meat from its body was making his stomach churn.

He could have at least had the decency to take its head off when he was cleaning it.

“Mutants.” He repeated dully.

Thorin nodded. “Tainted by the weapons of the Old Ones, disrupted the blood thread, but the meat is fine. If the taint was still here it would show in the land, like it does in the swamps and wastes.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Bilbo said, pulling his cup of near tasteless boiled beans closer to his body. “But I’m not going to eat that.”

“You’ll need the energy. The wilds are not the place to get squeamish about your meat.”

“Absolutely not.”

“There are other mutants in the hills and mountains, more dangerous than a vole or snake.” Thorin set aside the roasting stick and vole in question as he spoke. “Spiders, wolves, orcs, goblins, trolls, and more. Maneaters.”

Anxious laughter burst from Bilbo but under Thorin’s cold look it died an ugly death on his lips, leaving only a hollowness in his chest and bitterness on his tongue. He closed his eyes, swallowing back a wave of dread. Mutant maneaters? And they were headed towards them instead of away like, he was sure, more reasonable people would do? Thorin, he was sure, could take care of himself (he certainly carried enough weaponry to do so) but Bilbo didn’t think he’d ever had to defend himself in his life.

‘We’re two days away from the foothills at most.” Thorin said, voice coming from right next to him. Bilbo’s eyes snapped open in alarm, jerking back when he saw the smaller of the man’s guns being held out to him, muzzle pointed at the ground. He stared at it blankly. “You’ll need to be able to defend yourself. I’ll teach you what I can on the way.”

“You want me to take that?” Bilbo’s eyes widened. “I have never used a gun in my life. I think I was a teacher before this!”

“I’m shocked.” Thorin said dryly. Bilbo squinted. Was there actually a sense of humor under all that scowling? “That’s why I’ll be teaching you.”

He shook his head slowly. “I can’t...what if you need it?”

“If we’re ever in a situation where I’ve lost Orcrist and need to use this one you might as well throw yourself off the mountain and deny our enemies the satisfaction of eating you.”

That was encouraging.

“You name your guns?”

Thorin looked skyward for a moment, expression pained, then shook his head and sighed. He removed his gun belt before sitting next to Bilbo on his bed roll; the unpaired gun was cradled carefully in his hand as he laid the belt down on the ground front of them. “They were named long before they came to me. They’re heirlooms of my people, passed down in this form for some 29 generations. Before that they were a single sword, forged by a people who moved on so long ago no one really remembers who it was.”

“Does your sword have a name?”

“Killer of those who ask too many questions.” Thorin deadpanned. Bilbo sniffed.

“What an unwieldy name.”

“Deathless. My father forged it for me.” Thorin paused, eyes fixed on some far away point. “I would tell you the story of these guns, if you’ll listen.”  

Bilbo nodded without hesitation, he had always loved a good story and the allure of learning something about this world he’d woken up in was great, and Thorin began, gaze sliding to focus on the fire. “The old stories say that once there were many races here, before the world moved on for first time. Or second, depending on what version of the history you believe. Elves, dwarves, halfings, and other things. Most of the elves left but those who remained, along with the dwarves and halfings, slowly mixed their bloodlines with men until men were all that remained. The other races were lost and with them everything they knew. That’s what we mean when we say the world has ‘Moved On’. My people, in Erebor, were supposed to be descendants of dwarves.”

“You don’t look much like a dwarf.” Bilbo muttered before he could stop himself then cringed, regretting it. Thorin was finally speaking without harshness or implying he was a burden and he was making snappy comments, fantastic.

He wasn’t sure but he thought, for a split second, Thorin smiled. It came and went so quickly that he was nearly positive it was a trick of the light. “The blood would be no more than a few drops now. It’s said to make us sturdier, give us denser bones, and a connection to stone. I knew a man who claimed to speak to the mountain but he was also fond of devil-weed and was likely mad.” He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “It doesn’t matter much, now. What matters is the Dwarf King who took Erebor back from a dragon. He gathered a party and traveled across the world and along the way three blades were found. Orcrist he took as his own, another went to a wizard, and the third to a burglar.

“Some say the burglar became a close friend of the king and others say the burglar was the king’s lover and that he would have put them upon the throne as his consort, had he the chance.”

“He didn’t?”

“No. The burglar stole something priceless from the king-” Bilbo bit his tongue to keep from pointing out that such a thing should have been expected of a burglar. “Though it was out of fear and love, not greed. The king could not see that, so he made to cause the burglar harm and banished him. A great battle followed and the king fell, while the burglar went on to play a role in another tale.”

“Busy burglar. And rather depressing story if you don’t mind me saying so. I find ‘they lived happily ever after’ to be a better ending.”

Thorin looked at him askance. “Do you wish to hear the rest of this or not? It’s not a story to take lightly, Master Baggins, and the history of a weapon, and a people, shouldn’t be so easily cast aside as a joke.”

Bilbo looked down at his hands, heat creeping up his cheeks. He was being an ass, wasn't he? “My apologies. Please, go on.”

Thorin eyed him skeptically for a second before continuing. “Orcrist, the blade, was buried with the king along with that which the burglar had stolen. A jewel unlike any in all the world, valued by the king above all else, called the Arkenstone. Many years later the burglar’s blade found its way back to Erebor, placed onto the tomb of the king and there it would stay for many years. The World Moved On, Erebor fell into darkness, and the story faded. The Old Ones ruled and learned and built and then destroyed themselves. The World Moved On again as a thousand years passed and a new king, this one a man who claimed a thread of dwarf blood and domain over the mountain, came to take Erebor once again, to unite all who he would serve under him, and to push back the chaos that had taken hold of all things. He did this using the blades and the stone he took from the tombs.”

Thorin pointed at the paired guns, gleaming in their holsters, finger hovering above the symbols engraved along the barrel. “He was the one who had Orcrist turned into these guns and the blade of the burglar melted down into this one. It’s been passed down my family line, as had Orcrist, sometimes together and sometimes not, but I’ve never used it. It wasn't meant for me.”

“You think it was meant for me?” That had to be the single most absurd thing Bilbo had ever heard. And that was saying something at this point.

“I don't know.” Thorin admitted, a shadow passing over his face. “I thought, years ago, it was meant for my younger sister-son. The elder used dual revolvers, as I do, and it seemed natural that orcrist would be his. The younger trained with a single revolver but opted for a rifle in the end. We hadn't had a rifleman among us in generations but...it was very much like him to do as he pleased.”

There was a faint smile at the corner of his lips. It made his weather beaten, worn face lighter, younger. He was handsome anyway, certainly, but in the flickering of the fire light, lips curving softly, Bilbo had to look away or risk his stuttering heart leading him to do something foolish.

This was not some storybook and Thorin was not his knight in shining armor. This was not the time or place to go mooning after a strange man he barely knew.

"Your nephews-"

"Gone. Everything is gone." And there was the steel and stone back in Thorin's voice. "There are no gunslingers left in the world, just two Slayers and our stories. Perhaps. It has been a long time since I've heard word of Dwalin, and last I knew he had picked up a pretty scribe who wanted to record his story and gone off to battle in the Wastes, but I believe Dwalin will outlive the world. Or me, at least." 

Bilbo looked up through his lashes, guilty relief settling in his stomach when he saw the man was frowning bitterly at the fire, no trace of that sad smile on his lips. He was easier to face without it. "What's a slayer?"

Thorin closed his eyes. "It is a thing one might become to atone for a great mistake and it is to seek one's death, fighting all creatures of chaos along the way. We do not stop and we do not rest until we return to the stone, or undo what we have done."

That sounded truly awful. Maddening, or maybe the product of a mind already gone mad. "What could you have done that was so bad you need to die for it?"

"We lived." Thorin said blankly. He lifted the gun again, seemingly oblivious to the way Bilbo's breath caught and his hands shook. “I know now this would not have done it's job in my nephew's hands, no matter what I wanted for him, but it might in yours."

This time when Thorin held the gun out to Bilbo he took it. His hands trembled and he was afraid he would drop it, or worse manage to shoot himself, but once his fingers were wrapping around the metal a calm wrapped around him. The metal felt warm under his fingers, but not in the way warmed by the sun or body heat; the warmth radiated from the gun itself like a living thing. It fit perfectly in his hand.

“It’s called-”

“Sting.” Bilbo breathed. Then winced, a bolt of pain shooting through his brain. He reached up to rub at his temple but stopped partway, realizing that Thorin was staring at him in shock. “What? Why are-”

“You knew it’s name?”

“What name?”

“Of the gun. You called it by name.”

Bilbo wrinkled his nose. “What? Of course I didn’t. I…” he trailed off, fingers on his free hand twitching. Or maybe had. Sting; yes that was it. He knew that was it, felt the rightness down to the marrow of his bones. “You said it before, didn't you? During the story?”

“No.” There was no room for argument in Thorin’s tone.

“No, you didn’t.” He repeated, agreed, then found himself folding over, curling in on himself as pain bloomed in his skull again. Images flashed before his eyes, a nonsensical slideshow full of wolves large enough for a person to ride upon, great twisted creatures who bled black, and spiders. So many spiders. It all ran past him, lightning fast, them back around like a kaleidoscope, broken into chunks and twisted all around, then splintering again and again.

Thorin called to him, placed a hand on his shoulder. The pain ebbed, drawn away from him to wherever it had come from. When Bilbo straightened up it was to find himself under careful inspection, Thorin’s eyes roaming over him from head to toe. He could all but see the wheels turning in the other man’s head.

“Sorry. I've been having the worst headaches.” He said, wishing he could escape that intense gaze. Was Thorin trying to decide if he'd made a mistake in trusting him with the gun? Wondering if he should just abandon him now while he had the chance?

“You should rest. Tomorrow I begin to teach you and you’ll need your strength.” Thorin said and Bilbo was certain that wasn’t what he’d been thinking at all. “I know a tea that will help you sleep.”

He was skeptical about that but had never been one to turn down tea. He watched, rubbing at his forehead to banish what was left of his sudden headache, as Thorin headed water and poured it over a sachet he’d pulled from his pack. He accepted a steaming mug when it was offered, sipping tentatively at first then with some relief when he found the tea tasted mostly of ginger. It was almost pleasant to be under the stars with a warm drink, in front of a fire, sitting with...Thorin.

Well...at least he wasn’t a hardship to look at, even if a shower would have done him a world of good. (Both of them, actually.) Small favors were still favors.  

Bilbo drank his tea then, finding himself tired and fuzzy headed, laid down for what he told himself would only be a moment. After all the sun was hardly behind the mountains, casting its orange and pink rays over the sky. He didn’t normally sleep for hours yet; he just needed a few minutes to let his thoughts settle and the ache in his head completely fade.

“Did they have names? Your starcrossed king and burglar, I mean.” Bilbo clarified to the darkening sky. His eyelids were heavy and the idea of turning to face his companion seemed like far too much work.

Thorin was quiet so long Bilbo nearly forgot he asked a question. Sleep danced at the edge of his awareness, beckoning to him like a siren.

“They had many titles but their names are lost. King Under the Mountain, King of Carven Stone, Lord of Silver Fountains. Lord of the Blue Mountains. King of Erebor. Fool.” Thorin’s words flowed over him, melodic and dreamlike, bringing the strangest flickers of color and sound with them. A story he almost knew came to life in split second snatches. “Barrel Rider, Clue Finder, Web Cutter, Ring Winner and Ring Keeper. Lucky Number and Stinging Fly. The Consort Who Wasn't. Theif. Betrayer and Heartbreaker. Savior.”

Billbo hummed softly in acknowledgement and then knew no more that night.


End file.
